Slow Revival II: Gradual Combustion
by m.jules
Summary: Part two of the Slow Revival series: Rogue thinks about her question and what her personal answer might be.


Gradual Combustion

**By** m.jules

**Rated** PG-13

**Summary:** 'Love wasn't a battlefield; it was just hell.' Rogue's question gets answered. Sequel to "Lovers Less Wild."

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, not for profit.

**Notes:** So I need sweet. So sue me. Consider it my holiday treat to myself. Begun 10.30.04, Finished 01.25.05

There was some question, in the beginning, as to when he was coming back or even whether he would at all. A few curious minds asked the Professor what he thought, but he simply gave them vague, cryptic-sounding answers until they gave up. They asked Jean, whose silence on the matter bore faint traces of embarrassment, to the confusion of many. They didn't ask Rogue, thinking perhaps her recent – and very public – ordeal with Remy might have her in too sensitive a state, but she smiled a secret smile and shook her head a little, savoring a knowledge that only she and the man in question shared. Finally, as she was leaving to exorcise her own demons on a long-overdue road trip, cowboy hat settled firmly on her head, she pulled Beast aside, handed him a sealed envelope and said, "If he comes back before I do, give him this."

Hank didn't say what he and the others were thinking – that Wolverine might not be coming back, ever; and Rogue didn't say what she knew – that he always came back, and this time would be no different. She also knew he didn't expect her to sit around and wait for him, and though she was glad for that freedom to roam even – or especially – at this strange, potentially pivotal point in their relationship, she didn't know when she'd be back either and wanted him to have the option of contacting her with ease.

That was when she knew her own answer to her question weeks earlier. The only reason she hadn't fallen in love with him was probably just because she'd never allowed herself to think about him that way. The new cell phone in her pack, the existence and number of which was a secret shared only with the piece of paper in that envelope, suggested that her thoughts might already be beginning to change. It almost frightened her, especially when she considered the fact that she didn't know what thoughts Logan was having.

She hadn't asked the question because she'd wanted him to roll her beneath him and ravish her. She hadn't asked because she'd had an agenda. She'd asked because she'd genuinely wanted to know: Why hadn't they fallen in love?

He hadn't been ready to answer, raw as he was from whatever had happened with Jean (and she knew it had to have been Jean), and she was okay with that. The idea was one she needed time to ponder as well. She hadn't been entirely joking when she'd told him in the bar that she wanted poison. The discovery of Remy's deceit had been a sucker punch straight to the gut of her happy optimism and she'd been gasping for air when Logan found her. His very appearance had felt like mouth-to-mouth, and it hadn't occurred to her to wonder why until the next morning. Waking up in the strength of his arms had felt familiar, right, like she'd done it every day in another life. That was when she'd begun to realize that everything with Wolverine was like that: easy.

That was why she'd asked. Because right then, with the scent of Logan and alcohol and night-sweat and hope in her nostrils, it had seemed so damn obvious that they should have fallen in love by now… and why hadn't they?

When she'd awakened the second time, he had been sitting by the open window with his back to her, languidly smoking a cigar. She'd wrinkled her nose a little, but a soft, pondering smile had crept across her lips as she watched him. Without turning, he'd spoken to her quietly, and she'd had to hold her breath a little to be able to hear him.

"I don't know how long I'll be gone, but I'll come back. That much I promise." He had paused, inhaling the cigar smoke and exhaling with an unhurried intensity. He had seemed to be searching for words, and she'd levered herself up on one elbow, turning on her side to fix her gaze on the back of his head.

"I understand," she had said simply, with the deep conviction that she really did. He had turned his head just slightly, not enough to face her but enough to see her out of the corner of his eye. She'd kept her focus on his profile, and eventually he had smiled, just a little, and turned back to the window.

"Yeah," he had said finally, stubbing out the cigar in the palm of his hand and standing, his eyes fixed on the wound as it closed up. "I guess you do."

She had untangled long legs from the hotel covers and pushed herself to unsteady feet, reaching out and grabbing his battered old cowboy hat from the bedside table. He'd turned to face her, taking it slowly as she'd held it out to him. He'd looked at it thoughtfully, turning it over in his hands, then with deliberate motions and an unreadable look in his eyes, he'd placed it on her head and muttered, "Don't give up."

As she pulled out of Westchester, her blue-grey Ford pickup kicking up dust as it rattled down the driveway, she reached up and pushed the worn felt more securely in place and nodded in concession to Logan's command. She wouldn't think of giving up now, not when there was the slight possibility of something she'd never seen before… something that just might be worth the effort.

The road was a good place to ponder things, and she had lots of road, which meant lots of time for introspection. Somewhere around Asheville, North Carolina, she had a revelation that floored her and she didn't know why she'd never seen what was right in front of her face until now.

It wasn't that she didn't love Remy; she did, and she knew it. She loved him with a deep ache, an emptiness that seemed to go on forever… but she'd never been able to fill it, not even a little bit. She had to wonder if it was simply because, as much as she believed she would never get past her craving for him, they were just wrong for each other.

She knew he'd tried – they'd both tried – to make the other one 'right' because they'd believed it would fill the yearning. She knew she longed for him… but what she had of him was never enough to even take the edge off. It was pain without pleasure; it was an addiction without a high. It was the torment of Tantalus and it was what she'd come to expect of her life. For them, love wasn't a battlefield; it was just hell.

The road-wind coming through the open window of the truck caught the edge of the cowboy hat and lifted it slightly, causing her foot to automatically lift from the gas and her thoughts to turn toward the owner of her headwear.

Logan didn't hurt like Remy did. She didn't crave him in the same way; her tongue didn't burn for a single drop of his affection like water from St. Peter's fingertips. But then, she thought, maybe it was because he was the rain itself; maybe he satisfied her by his simple company… and maybe love wasn't so much about emptiness and longing and unforgettable fires as it was about fullness and streams in the desert and a slow, spreading warmth like waking up to the scent of coffee and cinnamon rolls on a November morning.

She wondered if the gentle confidence she had in him, the amber glow around the edges of her heart when she thought about him, the unconscious solidarity that made her turn to him when her world quaked on its axis might constitute love of a different kind… and if it might be worth a try.

Shelving the idea for the moment, she flipped on the truck's crotchety old cassette player and pushed in a battered tape that barely had any writing on it anymore, singing along with Don Henley and his peaceful, easy feelin's.

She had plenty of time to figure this stuff out, and she wasn't planning on rushing it. She'd been doing that long enough; she figured it was high time to take it easy.

She hadn't really known where she was heading when she set out from Westchester, but south and west worked for her, and when her headlights caught the green sign on I-40 West that said "Nashville, 212 miles" it seemed as good a place as any. She couldn't recall ever having been, and thought she might drive on through to Memphis. It'd almost be like being home again.

West End Avenue split off 440 and took her past the replica of the Greek Parthenon with its understated lighting, well-manicured lawn and fountain-dotted duck pond before it merged with Church Street and took her straight downtown. Her eyebrows lifted at the crush of people wandering over the sidewalks and through the streets with complete disregard for automobile traffic, and she began to wonder if perhaps she wouldn't be better off saving Nashville for a later date.

Not knowing when that later date would be, though, she pulled the old truck into a parking lot behind the Ryman Auditorium and paid the eccentric gentleman in the attendant's booth a whopping eight dollars. Cautious of the expanse of arm exposed by her spaghetti strap tank top, she reached behind the dusty bench seat and pulled out a long-sleeved flannel shirt, shaking it out before slipping it on. She looked down at the cuff of one of the sleeves, realizing that it fell down to her fingertips, and wondered how one of Wolverine's old shirts had gotten into her truck and apparently remained there for quite a while.

Some part of her figured it was a sign of some kind, but she didn't have the time or the disposition to ponder what it was at the moment, so she locked her vehicle and wandered down to the main thoroughfare where people were wandering in and out of country-western bars. On a whim, she slipped into the first one she came to, shoving her bare hands into the pockets of her jeans and feeling suddenly grateful that the sleeves on the shirt were so long. She didn't know how she'd managed to forget her gloves and that bothered her a little, but she shrugged it off and found an empty seat at the bar, ordering a long-neck and settling in to hear the live music.

There was a pretty blonde girl sitting on a kitchen stool on the small stage, strumming an acoustic guitar and singing about heartbreak in a way that made it sound like she knew what she was talking about. A very attractive young man stood a few feet to her right, drawing a bow across his fiddle strings with a mournful quality that underscored the girl's voice beautifully.

Rogue smiled in appreciation of their talent, taking a long sip from her beer, and leaned back against the bar. Someone sidled up to the bar just to her left and ordered a beer of his own, leaning casually as he waited for the bartender. "They're good," the man said, and it took Rogue a moment to realize he was speaking to her.

"Yeah, they are," she agreed softly, still tuned in to the musicians in question.

"I'm Dave," he said, holding out his hand as if to shake hers, and she smiled a little, sparing him a sidelong glance.

"I'm… Anna," she answered with some hesitation, giving him a little wave in lieu of returning the handshake and putting him in a coma. The name sounded odd on her lips, but she didn't feel like dealing with the explanations that would come from introducing herself as "Rogue."

"Do you dance, Anna?" Dave asked, and she took a moment to really look at him. He was an average height, probably 5'10", in his mid-to-late thirties with blond hair and blue eyes. He wasn't bad looking, actually, with a boyish smile that looked like it could charm a Catholic nun into all sorts of unspeakable mischief and make her enjoy it.

"Not really," she answered a little sadly, thinking that there would be no way to avoid skin-to-skin contact in a slow dance. "Two left feet."

"That's all right," he answered smoothly, sliding on to the bar stool next to her. "I would've just stepped on your toes anyway."

She laughed a little, pleased with his easy charm and surprised at the feeling of lightness that she was experiencing. No heavy guilt for flirting with a guy who wasn't Remy, no sharp pain that he didn't have red hair and eyes. She did, however, take note of a sort of gentle wistfulness that stole over her at the thought that Logan would have had gloves in his pockets and they could've danced.

That wistfulness grew as she sat, occasionally exchanging a witty comment or a laugh with Dave, until it became a deep-seated discontent in her soul and she found herself wishing that Logan was there. He would have understood her comment about the beer, her unspoken observation that Dazzler would have had something to say about the duo's lack of a light show, and most of all, he would have touched her and she wouldn't have been afraid.

Dave had been leaning in closer throughout the afternoon until she longed for simple touch – a warm, heavy hand on her shoulder, light fingers on her waist. She wanted to simply lean into him, to invite the contact, but she knew she couldn't. He didn't know he had to be careful. Logan would have known and he wouldn't have shied away. He always touched her and he was always careful.

Frowning, she finished her beer and stood, digging into her jeans pocket for cash.

"Leaving already?" Dave asked, half-hopeful, half-disappointed.

"Yeah," she smiled apologetically, tossing bills onto the bar. "I need to get goin'."

"Listen," Dave began, reaching out for her hand. She jerked it away sharply, taking a half-step back before she even realized what she was doing.

"I – I'm sorry," she said, smiling nervously. "I really have to go." She turned and walked quickly from the bar before he could say anything else. As she stepped onto the sidewalk, she paused, squinting in the blinding light of the setting sun, and took a deep breath, exhaling loudly.

Tucking her hands under her arms, hugging herself a little, she turned and walked up the slight incline to the parking lot where she'd left her truck. She unlocked the door and climbed in, sitting for a moment behind the steering wheel, just breathing in and out and trying to wait for her thoughts and emotions to settle enough that she could tell what they were.

And then there it was, staring her in the face with all the glaring brightness of an epiphany: She missed Logan. She wanted him. Not just sexually – she wanted him beside her, his hand in hers, his shoulder brushing against hers. She wanted the warm chuckle of his voice, the searching intensity of his eyes, the rare vulnerability that he let come through sometimes when they were up late talking. She wanted the feeling of security that always managed to sneak up on her when they were together.

"My God," she whispered aloud. "I think… I think I love him." She dropped her head to the steering wheel, an ironic laugh finding its way out of her chest. "Shit."

She looked over at the old army green canvas pack that rested on the bench seat of her truck, thinking about the cell phone inside it and longing for it to ring because it would be his voice on the other end. But she didn't know what he would say if he called her and cold fear rushed over her, making her shudder and turn away from the bag. Forcefully turning the key in the ignition, she put the truck in gear and drove out of the parking lot.

She wasn't sure she was ready to love him just yet, not sure she felt safe with the emotion. But as she turned on her blinker to pull onto the interstate, headed further west, she took a deep breath and comforted herself with the thought that she had time, and maybe by the time he called, she'd be ready to answer.

The End


End file.
